Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  He lets fly with his open hand, finding nothing but air as I duck under it. From the crouch I spring upward, driving my loaded fist through the red thicket of hair and landing square on the bony underside of his chin. Tears squirt from his eyes as his own teeth nearly sever his tongue. Rage swiftly consumes him. I know what is coming next, but I wait until he reaches for his pistol before I snap the Colt from my right side and level at his head. We hold in tandem stillness until a stern warning echoes from the street.

  “Either man shoots, he’ll answer to his maker ’fore he hits the ground.” Movement flickers in my periphery as the crowd parts, clearing the way for two army soldiers on horseback. They amble up easy and come to a stop ten yards short. The wide, black brim of the officer’s Stetson cuts a shadow across his face, muting the green puddles that look us over with weary bemusement. He shows no interest in his weapons. His sidearm remains holstered and the sabre, dangling from a dun Appaloosa, serves as a resting place for his elbow. The lieutenant draws all the power he needs from the gold chevrons sewn on his sleeve and the unquestioning timbre of his voice—that, and the twelve-gauge nimbly handled by the infantry regular escorting him. “Stow your arms, gentlemen. Too early in the day to die.”

  My gaze trained on Kirby, I lower the Colt and slide it home. Kirby shows his open palms to the long-sword. “You saw him draw on me,” Kirby says.

  “I saw him draw after you reached for yours,” the lieutenant says. “He’s just faster than you.”

  “He’s Injun’s what he is. Somebody taught this red sum’bitch how to talk pretty and put on pants.”

  “That’s exactly what we want them to do,” the long-sword says. “Beats the hell out of trying to fight them.” His words drip with the weight of having fought many. The Appaloosa nickers, piquing Storm’s interest. He starts for the mare, but I whistle and he stops, before throwing an angry blow to make known how he feels about it. I take his bridle and lead him toward me, scratching behind his ear to cool the fire.

  Lem finds cause to hop up and make a show for the bluecoats, giving Storm a wide berth as he passes. “Look what that bag of bones did to my neck.” He takes a pair of ill-advised steps toward the cavalrymen.

  “You, stop,” the officer commands, finally compelled to draw his weapon, which he does with the speedy exactitude of a man who kills by profession. Lem halts so quick he nearly falls backward. “I saw what he did. There is no detail of this pageant I have not seen, as it has consumed my sight for nearly ten minutes. And that stallion is no bag of bones.” Fixing his gaze back on me he says, “How did you acquire him, son?”

  “I raised him.” I say. “Pulled him out with my bare hands. Watched him find his legs. Put my family’s mark on him too. Letter P in a circle.”

  “I see it from here. It’s your horse, all right. And well trained at that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, well if this ain’t a Sunday social with the gut-eaters,” Kirby’s damaged tongue filling his mouth with marbles. “This cherry-nigger insulted me and his damn cur nag ought have his nuts cut off.” With that, he swings an arm and raps his knuckles into Storm’s flank. The stallion neighs, like stung by a bee, but his eyes stay on mine, imploring permission, which I grant in silent communication.

  “You touch that animal again,” the long-sword begins, but his warning is cut short by Storm himself, who lowers his head and in a single motion, flairs out his back legs. Only one connects, but it connects true, just above the knee. The sound is like a reedy branch snapping from a tree. A collective gasp rips from the crowd. Kirby’s eyes flutter white as any last bit of fight drains from him. He reaches out, flailing for the nearest handhold, but finding only emptiness as the leg gives way. Two men dart from the crowd, intending to catch his fall, but sudden self-preservation changes their minds. The beast of a man falls ugly and heavy to the ground, coughing a pillow of dust into the air.

  “You still want to buy him?” I say. The words are out of me before I can reconsider.

  The officer clears his throat and says, “You might want to be moving along, son.” I swing up to the saddle and adjust my hat for the looming burst of speed.

  “I’ll fetch the doc,” a man says, hurrying off down the street.

  Hitching into Storm, I rein him back hard just as I feel him start to go. He shrieks his annoyance. I turn toward Lem, who sits on the ground in a swath of his own vomit. I dig in my pocket and pull out the first coin I come to—a half-eagle fiver. It spins off my thumb, landing dead in the mudded foulness next to him. “For the doctor,” I say, pivoting Storm back in the other direction. I throw a respectful nod to the bluecoats as Storm finds his power and shows all in earshot why he is not, and will never be, for sale.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bennett Whitlock would remember it this way: that was the day the Brown Man came to see me. And even then, decades later, the memory would drip cold fear down his spine. He had been strolling the newest acreage of his ranch when the stranger arrived—no, make that appeared—as if from the ether. The clothes struck him first—a dark brown suit, impeccably tailored, with a coat fully buttoned to the trousers, allowing only a glimpse of the mahogany waistcoat beneath. A brilliant white collar floated below his jaw, broken up by a billowy chestnut tie of fine silk. Atop his head, a bowler, pitched slightly forward, had been dyed so dark that its coffee brown registered nearly black in the morning light. But the only true black about him—the only visible blackness—was his hair, trimmed and tapered, like an officer’s. As the man drew closer, Bennett noticed hints of rust and tawny woven into the jacket that somehow broke up the sameness and produced a most startling effect. When he looked at the stranger directly, there was no doubting the man’s formidable presence, even though he stood well under five-nine. A lone pistol, holstered above the left hip for a speedy cross-draw, amplified the gravitas. But when viewed in the periphery, the stranger told a different tale. Bennett Whitlock, unsure of his own eyes, turned his head slightly to verify what he could not at first believe.

  The man was not there. Against the backdrop of rolling chaparral, he was simply invisible.

  But of course, he was there.

  Normally a man of keen senses, Bennett figured his mind was just playing tricks on him. How else to explain a stranger sneaking up on him on his own ranch? He had no more time to dawdle on the subject when the stranger extended a gloved hand and gave his name as Jacob Cross.

  Cross. Easy to remember, Bennett thought, as he noticed the prominent crucifix suspended above the second button of the man’s coat. It was strangely beautiful, even feminine, and hand-carved—either of stone or wood, Bennett couldn’t tell—but the leather cord from which it hung lent a masculine touch. He wanted to stare at it longer, but then Cross spoke again, and when the rancher looked into his eyes—pools of hypnotic amber—he saw his own mortality.

  “Your name is Whitlock,” Cross not waiting for confirmation. “Tell me where I may find the man called Harlan Two-Trees.”

  While Bennett did not know the exact whereabouts of the young man he had known since the boy was twelve, he offered what information he had, including the details of the recent purchase of the land on which they now stood. In fact, Bennett answered every question that Cross asked without pause, omission or the slightest attempt at deceit. He would remember that the thought of answering any other way—or not at all—never occurred to him. When people spoke to Jacob Cross, they told the truth.

  “You over-paid for the land,” Cross said, when he heard the number.

  “I know I did. That Jew fella, Garber, had a way of haggling that turned my stomach sour.”

  Cross gazed out at the vastness of the rancher’s property, his brow furrowing. “You are no stranger to negotiation, Mister Whitlock. You do it every time your take your cattle to market.”

  “Yes, that I do. And darn well.”

  “Then to what aspect do I credit such generosity?” Even the man’s skin was brown, his chiseled face clean-shaven.
Italian? Bennett wondered. Maybe Spanish. Who was Bennett kidding? He’d never met any Italians. Or a genuine Spaniard. Only Mexicans, and Cross was no Mexican.

  “Truth is, I felt like we owed something to that boy. After what he done for this town? He sure didn’t deserve this.” They turned together and looked out, across the knoll, at the charred remains where a house once stood. “Burning him out like they did, t’was a blasted crime.”

  “A crime, yes. Just as it is a crime for any native to own or sell property. And any man—white or otherwise—involved in such an illegal transaction would himself be guilty of fraud—his assets subject to seizure.”

  “Now wait just a goddamn minute.” Cross spun and backhanded Bennett across the mouth.

  “You’ll not profane in my presence, sir.” Tears of stunned humiliation welled in the rancher’s eyes.

  “Well, I beg pardon then, Mister Cross.”

  “It is the pardon of God Almighty you should be begging.”

  Bennett swallowed hard and felt the metallic taste of fear spike beneath his tongue. Then Cross said, “Near forty White Men died in the Sangre Massacre. The only survivors were Indian—Two-Trees and the fugitive renegade, Ahiga, of the Navajo. They will both answer for their involvement.”

  “Some of them dead whites was criminals,” Bennett said, his voice shaking.

  “Some, yes. Deciphering that is not my business. But any red-blooded native who scoffs at the laws of this nation by trespassing beyond the generous boundaries of his allotted reservation is not just a criminal, but a threat to our national sovereignty. And tracking them down is most certainly my business.” Cross turned to face Bennett, capturing him in the amber shackle of his gaze. “Now where will I find this land-merchant, Garber?”

  * * *

  Jacob Cross strode down the main thoroughfare of Caliche Bend on a horse he had purchased that morning. He didn’t think much of this town, or its people, and it pleased him to soon be rid of it. He found his man, Van Zant, tending to a wagon just outside the jail. “Will that rig get us to Santa Fe?” Cross appraising the two-wheeled buggy with suspicion.

  “If that’s where we’re going. It’ll get.” Cross liked that about Van Zant—no double-talk or foot-dragging. If Cross wanted debate, he’d go back to Harvard. He needed a man who could accept an order without question, and he had found that in the Dutchman. But the thing he liked most about Van Zant—aside from his loyalty—was his lethal precision with a shotgun. As for the ten yards of rope Van Zant wore coiled around his broad chest—that skill the Dutchman was still learning.

  Cross dismounted and passed the reins to Van Zant, who led the old bay to the buggy’s harness. The horse wasn’t a drafting breed, but once unsaddled, she loaded into the harness with familiarity—enough to put her new owner at ease about the journey ahead. Santa Fe lay a half-day’s ride and it was already past nine. Cross gave his pocket watch a twist and slid it back into his waistcoat. As he turned, he saw, trudging toward him down the High Street, the Bend’s sorry excuse for a lawman. Big Jack Early wore his sheriff star pinned to a leather vest that strained to cover his belly and on his head, a gray Stetson wide enough for a child to sleep under. The lawman had with him a weathered Indian who appeared to be his prisoner, though one would be hard pressed to know by the appalling lack of security measures. Cross detested dilettantes almost as much as liars. The sheriff carried a twelve-gauge—its breach open—in the crook of his right arm, and with his left, guided the unbound Indian with nothing more than a hand upon the shoulder. Cross marveled how easy it would be for the native to run or commandeer the shotgun or—producing a weapon that he surely held somewhere under that Navajo blanket draped about him—commit any number of bloody violations upon his captor.

  But Big Jack Early was not the type of lawman who favored manacles. In fact, he’d have to do some digging around the station even to find a pair. Besides, it was just the drunkard, Saulito. Jack had arrested him twice already, and he’d only been sheriff for a few months.

  * * *

  “Excuse me, Sheriff,” Cross said, “is that native in custody?”

  “Well,” Big Jack eyeing the little brown man with some curiosity, “why don’t you tell me who’s asking and I’ll decide if I’m answering.”

  “Quite right, sir. I apologize for my impertinence.” Cross produced a small leather wallet, opened it, and held it up for Big Jack to see. “I am Jacob Cross. Bureau of Indian Affairs.” Jack’s eyes focused on the gold badge, the likes of which he’d never seen, but he knew it was far more substantial than the cheap tin he’d special ordered for himself from the Woolworth catalog.

  “Indian Affairs? Golly. You here all the way from Washington?”

  Cross carried with him at all times, a second, irrefutable credential, but he would not need that, not with this hayseed sheriff.

  “I am here on official business, sir, but as this man in your charge is clearly Native, his violation of the law is also my business.”

  “This here’s Saulito. Ain’t nothing but a harmless Navajo, what comes down from the hills now and then to get his drunk of tizwin. Merle found him sitting out in his vegetable patch, eating carrots straight out of the ground.”

  “A crop stealer. I’ll note that in my records.”

  “Oh, it’s hardly stealing. Hell, Merle’d give him the carrots if he knew how to speak Navajo.” Big Jack already had a bad feeling about the stranger. But when the second man—the one wearing a noose like a bandolier—fell in behind him, Big Jack knew things had taken an ominous turn.

  “Sheriff, you have in your possession a White Mountain Apache, making him neither Navajo, nor harmless.”

  “Apache? He don’t look like no Apache I ever seen. Hair’s all wrong. Moccasins all wrong.” Big Jack pinched Saulito’s blanket. “And I know a Navajo weave when I see it. Now what makes you so sure he’s Apache?”

  Cross said something to Saulito in a native language. The Indian muttered a response.

  “Because he just told me.” Cross had spotted the irregularities in the Indian’s clothes from the first moment. But the definitive reason Cross knew him for Apache—a reason he would not share with the gathering crowd—was that he could smell the difference. The Apache have a stink all their own. Cross cleared his throat. “And as this Apache is very far from home, you may remand the prisoner to me. It shall be my duty to escort him back to San Carlos personally. I take full responsibility. You are free to keep your jail cell available for those who need it. I’m sure it sees ample use in this town. Mister Van Zant?” Van Zant stepped forward.

  “Now hold on just a minute,” Big Jack finding his legs. Van Zant stopped. “I’m still sheriff of this town, and I’ll decide when my prisoner gets released.” Van Zant’s eyes narrowed, both men considering twelve-gauge options. Cross touched his associate on the shoulder and Van Zant slackened.

  “You would be Sheriff James Early. ‘Big Jack,’ as you’re known in Calich’ Bend.”

  “Cal-EE-chi,” Jack correcting.

  “Apologies, Sheriff. I may be a stranger, but I mean no disrespect to your office. As I’m sure you mean no disrespect to mine. We are both public servants, entrusted with legal authority. Although my constituency is slightly larger than yours. But I leave it to you. If you wish to defy an act of Congress, and an executive order, by abetting a known thief—a savage for whom you carry some sentimental affinity—then play your hand, sir.”

  “Look here, we don’t need to be making no federal rumpus out of this. No one’s abettin’ or defyin’ anything. Let’s just suppose we handle this all local.”

  “It’s not some local militia his band has been attacking, it is the United States Army. The Apache chose to wage war on this nation. A war they shall have.”

  “Saulito wouldn’t attack nobody.”

  “You have no idea what he would do.”

  “I know Saulito. He’s ain’t nothing but a drunk, dumb Injun. But that don’t mean he deserves to be carted off to no rez
.”

  “A good Apache scout would make you think that. The only ones still out there are desperate. They’ve had to get resourceful.”

  “Come on, Cross. He ain’t no scout.”

  For the first time all day, Jacob Cross smiled. “Then here,” he pulled a flask from an inner pocket and held it close to Jack’s face. “Give him this. Ply him with liquor and invite him to your home. He’ll cook your lungs and eat them, dancing to his pagan dirt-god while his brothers rape your wife and your daughters.”

  “Good thing I only got boys.”

  “His kind do not discriminate.”

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” Jack said. “Hell, you want him so bad, take him then.”

  Cross gestured to Van Zant. The Dutchman spun Saulito around and yanked the blanket from his body. He produced a pair of iron handcuffs and bound the Indian’s wrists. Then he checked him for weapons.

  “Hello. What’s this?” Van Zant pulled a stone spike from the man’s waistband and dabbed his thumb against the razor sharp tip. He handed it to Cross.

  “Well I’ll be God-damned,” Big Jack said. Jacob Cross hitched mid-step—the blasphemy a physical assault to his ears.

  “Vain the Lord’s name again, sheriff, and I’ll damn you where you stand.”

  * * *

  By eleven o’clock, the pale sun had risen as high as it would go this time of year. The buggy meandered down the trail, making terrible time, Van Zant coaxing all he could out of the bay, but the horse had slowed considerably now that the terrain had become winding and unfamiliar. And with the unexpected load of three passengers and the buggy itself, one misstep could send them all tumbling to a rocky death. Cross sat in the next seat, keenly aware that Caliche Bend stood only ten miles behind them. Up ahead, the valley floor shimmered, as if tantalizingly close, but the wheels would not touch its flat surface for another hour. Right now a thirty-foot drop of sheer rock on either side of the trail kept everyone’s focus on the present and their nerves raw.

  “I shoulda asked about the trains,” Van Zant said. “Rate we’re going, we make the run out to San Carlos, we won’t get back to Santa Fe before nightfall tomorrow. Sorry about that, Mister Cross. Sorting out gettin’ places is one of the things you pay me for.”